There is not any haunt of prophecy,
Nor any old chimera of the grave,
Neither the golden underground, nor isle
Melodious, where spirits gat them home,
Nor visionary south, nor cloudy palm
Remote on heavens hill, that has endured
As Aprils green endures; or will endure
Like her remembrance of awakened birds,
Or her desire for June and evening, tipped
By the consummation of the swallows wings.
Submitted By: shalini
In Category: April Fool
Added On: Monday, March 31, 2008